Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  A shriek from the direction of the ballroom doors pulled her rather rudely from the heavens down to earth. “Good gracious, Lady Victoria! Have you lost your senses?”

  Warm lethargy weakened her muscles, filled her head like a steam cloud. Vaguely, she knew something odd had occurred, but she was dazed, shivering in the aftermath. Lucien pulled away slightly, but still clutched her waist. Her bare breasts were suddenly cold, exposed in a way they had not been when he had covered them with his mouth and hands. Slowly blinking up at his face, she noticed he was breathing heavily, flushed and wearing a fierce frown. He shook his head like a dog casting off water after a swim.

  Distantly, a thread of sanity anchored on the edge of her mind, and she realized what must have happened: They had been interrupted. She froze, seeing the same realization in Lucien’s face. Simultaneously, they turned in the direction of the shrill exclamation.

  And there stood Lady Gattingford, the venerable hostess of one of the finest balls of the season and a notorious gossip, staring back at her from the open door. The expression on the matron’s face was astounded, appalled. Scandalized.

  In that moment, as Lucien pivoted so his back blocked Lady Gattingford’s view and calmly tugged Victoria’s bodice up to restore her modesty, the full horror of what had just occurred—what she had allowed to occur—hit her with paralyzing force. She had let a man unknown to her touch and pleasure her in ways she had not even considered permitting her fiancé. This had been witnessed by none other than her hostess, who would doubtless relish notifying every member of the ton in hopes of enshrining her ball as the event of the year. The scandal would spread with the swiftness of fire through dry grass. Within a week, everyone would know. Everyone. Including Lord Stickley, who would surely cry off the engagement. And her brother, of course.

  Oh, dear God. The duke would be enraged. She had shamed the entire family. Harrison placed great importance on honor and reputation. Her other brother, Colin, would be far more understanding. But then, he was hardly a stranger to less-than-dignified behavior himself.

  There was no mistaking it: Her life had changed inalterably this night. And not for the better.

  “Lady Gattingford,” Lucien said as he turned, his tone nonchalant, even mocking. “A fine night for a stroll on the terrace, wouldn’t you say?”

  The tall woman’s eyes narrowed on him, her mouth a flat line. “Do not imagine I hold you blameless, my lord. You are nothing less than a bounder!”

  While Victoria had defined him with the same term earlier, she found herself bristling at the insult toward Lucien. They had experienced a moment of uncontrollable passion together. She suspected he had felt as swept away as she had, blind to their surroundings, and tossed amid a raging storm. There was no need to paint him as a villain.

  “My dear lady,” she began, “I do comprehend your dismay at what you have seen. But, please understand we were both caught up in the moment. It was simply a lapse of judgment. If—if you could see your way clear to—”

  “Lapse of judgment? While that may be one acceptable description of your behavior, my lady, it in no way excuses the shameful wantonness I witnessed.”

  Other guests began taking notice of the intriguing and heated conversation happening on the terrace, and the two remaining sets of doors were opened. Soon, an alarming number of people—perhaps twenty—crowded around Lady Gattingford, including Lady Berne, her two daughters, the Aldridge twins, and Lord Stickley. Oh, heaven help me, she thought, cold dread clenching her insides. Stickley does not deserve what is about to happen.

  Before she could say another word, Lady Gattingford regaled the crowd with a summary of her observations. Snippets of the matron’s monologue repeated in Victoria’s mind—kissing, shocking, inappropriate. As though trapped in a nightmare, Victoria froze, only able to watch and endure. The woman appeared to savor each word, her descriptions growing ever more detailed with each gasp from her audience. Fondling, bosom, exposed. A flush of pure shame heated beneath Victoria’s skin, burning and pulsing in her face and chest. The humiliation was almost too much to bear.

  Then, it got worse.

  Lady Berne paled to a sickly white as her eyes darted between Victoria, Lucien, and back to Stickley. Flags of ruddy color signaled the marquess’s anger and embarrassment as he glared at Victoria. When Lady Gattingford reached her triumphant crescendo, and the shocked mutterings of the crowd burst forth, he simply turned his back and walked away, charging through the doors and out of the ballroom, shouldering several gentlemen aside as he went. The din of the crowd’s chatter prevented her from calling out to him, begging him to stop and listen so she could defend herself.

  Not that she had a defense. She was, in fact, quite guilty.

  Lady Berne, bless her, courageously approached Victoria, risking much by further associating herself with a ruined young woman. She took Victoria’s icy fingers in her hands. “Are you well, Victoria?” she asked gently.

  Victoria nodded, then looked down at the flagstones, no longer able to hold her friend’s sympathetic gaze. She swallowed hard, bothered by the tightness in her throat. She refused to cry. She simply would not.

  “He did not harm you, then? Force you?” The softly spoken words were stunning, as Victoria had not imagined anyone would reach such a conclusion.

  “No. Why would you suggest …?”

  “Because, my dear, he more than any other may have reason to wish you and your family harm.”

  She shook her head. “That makes little sense.”

  “Do you not yet know who he is, child?”

  Victoria stared into Lady Berne’s kind, steady brown eyes and knew she would not like this. Not at all. “Who is he?” she whispered hoarsely.

  The countess took a deep breath and squeezed Victoria’s hands as though to brace her for a great shock. “He is the new Viscount Atherbourne. He inherited the title after your brother, the duke, killed his brother in a duel last season.”

  Victoria reeled, the sounds of the crowd dimming, her head spinning with the possible implications. She had known about the duel, but Harrison had not explained why it had happened, only informing her it was a matter of honor that had been resolved, and had ended in the death of Viscount Atherbourne. He had refused to discuss it further. The incident had generated a shockwave among the aristocracy, but because it had occurred toward the end of last season, just before most families departed London for the country, the scandal had fizzled before it really began. Few of her acquaintances had brought it up after that—a testament to her brother’s considerable power—and she assumed the matter had been largely forgotten.

  But here stood a man who had every reason to remember, every reason to seek retribution. Could he have planned this? Was his impassioned embrace—she swallowed hard on a wave of sickness—nothing more than a cruel charade designed to ruin her? No, surely not. He must have felt the same tidal force sweeping away all reason; she could not have been alone in that. She could not have been such a fool.

  She immediately sought reassurance in Lucien’s gaze, shifting to look up at where he stood a few feet away, listening to her conversation. “You …?”

  The mocking smile and triumphant glint in his eyes confirmed her worst suspicions. “Yes, my darling. I am Lucien Wyatt, Viscount Atherbourne.” He swept a graceful bow, his discarded glove now back in its proper place as though nothing significant had occurred. “And I must tell you, making your acquaintance has been the greatest of pleasures.”

  ~~*

  Chapter Three

  “A single shot through the heart, you say? Well, I suppose it is not entirely unexpected. Blackmore is nothing if not a perfectionist.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham upon news of Viscount Atherbourne’s untimely demise.

  No one, but no one, intimidated through silence more effectively than the Duke of Blackmore. If Victoria had not been certain of it twenty minutes ago, she would be now, after sitting with her hands folded neatly in her lap, staring at the hands
ome blond head of her silent brother while he scratched away at some missive. For nearly half an hour.

  He was formidable on the best of days. Consumed with propriety, duty, and family honor. Strict in his adherence to—and enforcement of—societal dictates. She expected him to lecture her with his sharpest aristocratic weapon: quiet, clipped sentences that made one long for a January blizzard simply to experience warmth. However, since the moment she had entered the study and he had bluntly ordered her to sit, he hadn’t so much as acknowledged her presence.

  But then, what was there to say? She knew the scandal had grown to epic proportions. Belaboring that all-too-obvious fact with a scathing diatribe was unnecessary. Duke’s sister or not, no self-respecting gentleman would now willingly choose her—a wanton, reckless, ruined girl—to marry. After all, her former fiancé had been thoroughly and quite publicly humiliated. His only recourse had been to cast her aside and decry her betrayal to all and sundry.

  She was, not to put too fine a point on it, notorious.

  While she felt shame at this knowledge, she had to admit it gave her the tiniest thrill to have overturned the assumptions of so many members of the ton. Victoria had been regarded since her debut as a paragon of quiet grace, perfect comportment, and impeccable lineage—the ideal society miss. She was not the most beautiful of women, nor the most charming, nor the most interesting, but thanks in large part to Lady Berne’s efforts, Victoria had become known as “The Flower of Blackmore,” applauded by the patronesses of Almack’s as the example to which other debutantes should aspire. The strategy resulted in three proposals at the end of last season and two at the beginning of this, her second season. Lord Stickley’s offer had come a mere fortnight after they arrived in London.

  She sighed and shifted in her chair, glancing down at her hands, hearing the whisper of Harrison’s pen stroking across the page. After their parents’ deaths, Harrison had been driven to enshrine the family’s legacy, and she became a willing participant in that effort. Being courted by and then married to the season’s finest catch had been the pinnacle of the dreams both he and her parents had for her. Those dreams had been utterly dashed the moment she chose to remain on the terrace with Lucien, rather than marching back inside the ballroom at the first sign of impropriety.

  Even knowing this, a part of her she seldom acknowledged was relieved she would not be marrying Lord Stickley. In truth, they had never suited. She winced inwardly. That being said, there were more preferable ways to cry off an engagement than being the center of the biggest scandal since … well, since her brother shot the previous Viscount Atherbourne, she supposed.

  Harrison began speaking without glancing up at her. “You have left yourself few options, Victoria.” He dipped his pen in the inkwell and continued scratching away at the page before him. She wondered idly if he was writing a novel. Absurd, that. Her staid, traditional brother doing something so frivolous and romantic as penning fiction? The thought made a bubble of nervous laughter rise in her throat. She held her breath and pressed her lips together firmly to stifle it.

  He finally ceased writing and looked up. Her amusement died before it had really begun. She’d expected his gaze to be cold, disapproving, remote. And it was. But beneath that was a deep, resigned sadness. It fairly broke her heart.

  “Harrison, I …”

  “Despite the dishonor you have dealt the family, I still care for you as my sister. Although I may occasionally wish it otherwise, that shall never change. Therefore, I will offer you two choices. You may live at Blackmore Hall until I marry, at which point, you will transfer your household to our western estate at Garrison Heath. It is smaller but perfectly comfortable.”

  “It is a half day’s ride from the nearest village.”

  His eyes narrowed in the first visible flash of anger he had shown throughout the scandal. She suspected a great deal of fury was being controlled beneath the surface.

  “And yet, it is what I will offer you,” he snapped. “If you cannot stomach the idea, then you may feel free to choose your second option.”

  She took a deep, bracing breath and clenched her hands tightly in her lap, her thumb stroking her knuckles soothingly. “Which is?”

  “Our Aunt Muriel is in need of a companion. You would go to live with her in Edinburgh. Whichever choice you make, you will leave London as soon as I can arrange it.”

  The air condensed around her, cold and sharp. She was to be banished, then. Hardly unexpected. Really, she supposed his offers were both rather generous, under the circumstances. He was sending her away, but not so far that she could not still see him and Colin occasionally.

  In one case, she would be able to live as she liked, painting and sketching and managing her own household, with no one else to consider. She would be relatively independent and free of others’ interference. And lonely, she thought. Terribly lonely.

  In the second option, she would be companion to an elderly great-aunt she remembered fondly as eccentric but witty and fun. As she recalled, Aunt Muriel loved to travel, so at least that option might offer a chance for variety, if not true adventure. However, Victoria would have no home of her own, living instead on the whims and good graces of a woman she hadn’t seen in over a decade.

  But does that matter so much, since I am unlikely now to ever marry? And if I do not marry, I will have no children, presumably. It will always be just … me.

  No chasing a giggling two-year-old around the garden. No shopping on Bond Street for her daughter’s first season. And definitely no knee-weakening kisses with a devilishly handsome husband.

  She felt a sob rise and gather in her chest. Her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. Blast it. She had cried for two days after that humiliating night. She refused to start up again. She. Would. Not. Everything would be fine, she assured herself. Just fine. Oh, not what she had pictured her life to be, surely. But quiet and secure and restful and serene …

  A white square of fabric appeared in front of her face, its edges blurred by the tears she couldn’t seem to prevent. She took the handkerchief and pressed it to her mouth, then tightly grasped Harrison’s strong, capable hand where it still hovered next to her. They remained there for long minutes, he holding her hand gently and stroking her hair while tears quietly rolled down her cheeks in an unstoppable flow.

  Rather than oppressive and disapproving, his silence now felt as it had when she was six years old and mourning the death of her first (and last) pet, an old tomcat she had named Salty. As Harrison had sat with her then, holding her hand just like this, his silence had fallen as a reassuring blanket around her. He was ten years older than she, but had never given her a moment’s doubt about his love, had rarely treated her with anything other than steadfast affection.

  A great deal of her regret over the incident at the Gattingford ball was because of the blow it dealt to her brother. For that alone, she could not forgive herself. The damage to her life would forever change his.

  When a polite knock intruded into the silence, Harrison gave her hair one last stroke and pulled away to sit once again behind his desk. “Yes?”

  “A gentleman is here to see you, your grace.”

  Seated with her back to the doors, Victoria could not see Digby’s face, but she found their unflappable butler’s tremulous tone rather alarming.

  Harrison frowned. “Who is it?”

  “Viscount Atherbourne, your grace.”

  White-hot fury flashed briefly in Harrison’s gray-blue eyes before he blinked and they iced over. “Thank you, Digby. Please show Lord Atherbourne into the drawing room. I will join him in a moment.”

  Her heart stuttered, stomach twisting almost painfully as she realized what this announcement meant. He was here. In her house. The man she had been dreaming about, then cursing, then dreaming about some more for the past three-and-a-half days.

  She heard the door shut behind Digby before Harrison said, “I think you should lie down for a while,
Tori.” His use of her childhood nickname suggested he was feeling protective; his dismissing her to her bedchamber implied he wanted her as far away from the coming confrontation as possible. She hoped he wasn’t planning to shoot yet another Viscount Atherbourne, although she could appreciate the sentiment.

  He rose from behind the desk and strode purposefully toward the doors. As he passed, she again grasped his hand and tugged him to a halt. “Harrison, please don’t do anything rash.”

  He squeezed her hand, set it back in her lap, and patted it soothingly. “Not to worry. In spite of the severe nature of the provocation, I am not the reckless sort. I shall speak to the man and see what he wants. Go and rest now. Trust me to do what is best.”

  ~~*

  “Striking a man seems a most unpleasant way to begin a conversation, don’t you agree, your grace?” Atherbourne asked wryly, wincing as he fingered his bruised jaw. Unfortunately, Harrison thought, whatever damage might have been done by his fist, it was not enough to wipe the other man’s smug, arrogant grin from his face. When Harrison had entered the drawing room of Clyde-Lacey House, the horse’s ass had been leaning casually with his arm braced on the back of Judith Clyde Lacey’s favorite red velvet chair, the one Victoria was fond of curling up in when she worked on her embroidery. Harrison had not been able to stifle his instant, violent reaction. It was unlike him, but immeasurably satisfying.

  “Perhaps. But it felt quite reasonable at the time. Now then, let us speak plainly.” Harrison tugged the sleeves of his tailcoat to straighten the expertly tailored superfine. “The fact that you continue to draw breath owes more to my restraint than to your worth. Therefore, you will state why you are here without preamble or prevarication, and you will do so now. Before my patience is at an end.”